


Manifest Dynasty

by Immanuel



Series: Inferno [6]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Clade Venenum, Gen, Officio Assassinorum, Rogue Trader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immanuel/pseuds/Immanuel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jovinus Holt: Rogue Trader, looks down on those born with mere silver spoons in their mouths. Fabulously weathly, educated by the finest scholars in the Imperium, fated for greatness, his only peers are the highest of nobility, and it is only a matter of time until he stamps his name on the stars. There is one slight issue - his father refuses, point blank, to die in a timely fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifest Dynasty

“’THE MEMOIR OF _the Lord Jovinus IV Holt_ ’. No, nonono, much too dry,” he dismissed the idea as soon as he had given it voice. Jovinus Holt twirled a golden stylus in his hand as he brainstormed, the gaudy golden filigree perfectly at home in the equally elaborate office. He sat in front of a hemi-circular glass wall that stretched from marble floor to vaulted ceiling around fully half the vast circular space, staring out at the spired steel expanses of Holt City, and the rolling hills of the garden-world surface of Holt Prime beyond.  
  “How about ‘ _The Legend of Jovinus_ ’? Too much? I need something simple, catchy, but classy. I know – ‘ _Jovinus Holt: Rogue Trader_ ’. It’s perfect,” he exclaimed, spinning in his velvet-upholstered throne to glare across his desk at his scribe. “Are you writing this down, Suetonius?”  
  On the other side of the chaotic mess of discarded dataslates and sheaves of parchment littering the marble block that served as Jovinus’ desk, the wizened figure of Suetonius nodded fervently as he scribbled on a dataslate.  
  “Now, where to begin?” Jovinus mused, tapping his stylus absently on a pile of petitions to the planetary government that he was studiously ignoring.  
  “At the beginning, my lord?” offered Suetonius. “If I might suggest a brief recount of your lineage and formative years to set the scene for-”  
  “Have you ever read a book, Suetonius?” asked Jovinus, expectant pause making it clear the question was not rhetorical.  
  “Of course, my lord.”  
  “And how many of them began with a brief recount of the protagonist’s lineage and formative years in a determined effort to rob any mystery from the character?”  
  Suetonius opened his mouth to respond, but this time Jovinus continued unabated, voice gradually increasing in volume.  
  “I’ll tell you how many – none! No, it needs to open cold, thrust the reader straight into the action. Nobody wants to read ‘Jovinus Holt was the firstborn son of the Lord Holt Martius-Mercutius II, the heir apparent to the ancient and noble Holt rogue trader dynasty’, I’m getting bored just thinking about reading it, and I’m only doing that to make a point.”  
  “Very well, my lord,” conceded Suitonius, crossing out a note on his dataslate. “We could simply include a family tree as an appendix.”  
  Jovinus slumped back in his seat, elbow leaning on one golden arm as his chin nestled in his hand. “Fine. Nobody will read it anyway, but if it makes you feel better about adequately chronicling the family history,” he mumbled from behind the curled fingers obscuring half his mouth.  
  He turned his face to the ceiling, painted with a glorious fresco of the Emperor of Mankind looking down at him. His father had never liked it, said the artist had given the Emperor’s eyes a malicious glint, but Jovinus thought it was a wonderful piece, the glorious visage of the Master of Mankind rendered in a thousand shades of gold. At night, a million miniature lumen capacitors artfully worked into the piece would bathe the office in the golden light of the Emperor’s presence.  
  “Of course!” Jovinus cried with a flash of inspiration. “We should start with the Emperor affirming the divine – sorry, _manifest_ – right of the Holt dynasty to rule over the Holt system and continue to ply the stars in his name as rogue traders.”  
  Suetonius made a dubious noise, exhaling slowly through his nose. He wasn’t writing anything down.  
  “Do you not think the Emperor ought to have a place of honour at the beginning of the tale, Suetonius?”  
  “It’s not that, my lord. It’s just – well, as I recall you were barely eight years old when the Emperor presented your grandfather with the Holt Charter.”  
  Jovinus fixed him with a glare that made it very clear he was aware of the fact, and not at all fond of being reminded of it. For the first time, there was an edge of anger in his voice beyond its usual tone of arrogant annoyance.  
  “Dramatic. Licence.”  
  Suetonius hastily averted his eyes, scribbling furiously as he mumbled profuse apologies.  
  “’No out-systemer had set foot on any of the nine worlds of the Holt system in centuries’ – no scratch that – ‘in living memory before the arrival of the Emperor of Mankind. He came at the head of a vast armada of warships of the Legiones Astartes, the veil of Old Night seeming to roll back before the cutting, eagle-winged prow of the _Imperator Somnium_. His Great Crusade had already united half the galaxy under the aquila, but in the Holt system he did not find humanity fighting desperately for their continued survival as he was accustomed. For the Holt system was the domain of the ancient and noble Holt dynasty, famed star-farers and adventurers whose line stretched back to the Second Age of Technology when they had left Albyon on Ancient Terra to forge their legend in the expanses of space.’  
  “’The Emperor made anchor above Holt Prime, the third planet from the star Dynasty, just as Terra was third from Sol, and descended to the silver jewel of Holt City. He was accompanied by no less than two of his sons, the mighty primarchs Sanguinius’ – not Horus, obviously, we’ll have to edit him out. Paints us in a bad light. Guilliman, maybe? Or Dorn? Pencil in Guilliman, we’ll see how that reads and maybe change it later – ‘They were resplendent in their ceremonial plate, wrought by the greatest artificers in the galaxy, but still their majesty could not approach that of the Emperor himself.’  
  “’They received a kings’ welcome from the people of Holt City, cheering the procession of golden Custodes, Sanguinary Guard and’ – I think we’ll go with Dorn, actually. It fits the colour scheme, more thematic – ‘Templars that followed the Emperor and his sons as they marched towards the golden spire of Holt Tower.’  
  “’At the very peak, so tall it was lost in the clouds on the rare days the violet skies of Holt Prime were not clear, the Emperor met with three generations of the Holt dynasty in the Chamber of Ascension. The Lord Holt, Martius-Mercurius I, wore an ancient suit of golden carapace armour, a relic of Ancient Terra that was a lesser reflection of the Emperor’s own ornate regalia. Beside him stood his heir apparent, also named Martius-Mercurius, wearing his robes of state in his capacity of Grand Duke of Holt Prime.’  
  “’Yet, for all the splendour of these legendary scions of Holt, it was the third who drew the Emperor’s eye. Jovinus Holt was but a young man, yet he radiated a courage, a determination and a spark of brilliance that the others lacked. Jovinus looked into the infinite wisdom in the Emperor’s golden eyes and knew, beyond any doubt, that he was marked for great things. It is said that from that day, Jovinus’ once brown irises were transfigured into shimmering pools of liquid gold.’  
  “’That day the Holt dynasty swore its fealty to the Imperium of Man and received from the Emperor the gift of-’”  
  Jovinus’ monologue was interrupted by a chime from the intercom on his desk. Digging through a mound of audit reports, he unearthed the device, priority indicator blinking an insistent red.  
  “I’m sort of in the middle of something.”  
  ++Apologies for the interruption, my lord, but Magos Villefort says he requires your presence in the laboratorium.++  
  “Ah, excellent. Tell him I’m coming,” smiled Jovinus, terminating the communication and rising to leave. “You can finish up a first draft of the opening chapter whilst I attend to this, Suetonius.”  
  The scribe nodded vigorously, stowing his dataslate in a groxhide briefcase and scurrying out of the room. Jovinus noted with some satisfaction that the chronicler of the Holt dynasty had not had the temerity to bother him with any more trivialities of fact throughout his dictation.

The laboratorium, though well-appointed with banks of humming machinery and a baffling array of bubbling chemical vats, had clearly not been designed as such. Carpet was still visible around the edges of the tiles laid in paths between devices, and paintings hung beneath protective sheets on walls of carven stone. It was the outermost of Jovinus’ private chambers, transformed by his latest obsession with chymistry. It had been many things through the years – a duelling arena, a private casino, even a brewery – but none had lasted as long as its current incarnation.  
  Since his father took ill, the laoratorium had been at work tirelessly, at first under Jovinus personally, but increasingly he had taken a secondary role after the arrival of the Magos Alchemys Villefort, the hunched figure swathed in rust red robes studying some sample under a micro-omniscope. That was when Jovinus had had the idea to write a book.  
  Villefort looked up as Jovinus entered, a chatter of binaric emitting from the hint of a metal mask glinting in the shadows of his capacious hood. A servitor lumbered towards a cryostack fed by hundreds of cables of varying thickness at the magos’ command.  
  “I believe I have done it, my lord,” intoned Villefort, switching to High Gothic.  
  Jovinus gritted his teeth against the screeching feedback of the magos’ mechanical voice box cycling to re-align for interface with non-augmented humans. He followed the magos to the cryostack, feeling his eyes and lungs compressed by the pressure field around it as he approached. The magos and servitor continued, failing to consider how proximity to the device might affect normal human biology.  
  Villefort’s chromed fingers keyed in a code, then inserted a mechadendrite into a socket on the brushed steel façade. A series of lights turned from red to green as the magos transmitted his security clearances. Finally, a door opened with a hiss of decompression and a cloud of vapour. Reaching into the gap with mechanical servo-arms resistant to the near-absolute cold of the cryonic vault, the servitor brought out a vial.  
  “This is it?” asked Jovinus.  
  It was entirely unremarkable. Somehow, Jovinus had envisioned something more dramatic after the theatrics of the cryonic vault.  
  “Yes, my lord,” responded Villefort.  
  “Will it work?”  
  “I project the probability is functionally equal to one hundred per cent.”  
  “Perfect. When my father is cured, the Holy dynasty’s preparations to enter the war will make a fine cliff-hanger for the first volume of my memoirs. Do you think I should leave it ambiguous which side we intend to declare on, keep it for a reveal in the second volume?”

A month later, Martius-Mercurius II, the Lord Holt, died. He died in agony. At first it had seemed Villefort’s cure was working, the Rogue Trader Lord’s condition improving steadily. Then, suddenly, his organs begun shutting down one by one. The chirurgeons did their best to stymie the damage and replace the organs, but they simply could not do it fast enough. In the end their ministrations merely prolonged, and perhaps even heightened, his suffering.  
  It was as if the virus knew it was being beaten and, in its death throes, resolved to take its host down with it. It was a poor explanation, and everyone knew it, but it was the best they could do. The simple fact was they knew absolutely nothing about the seemingly unique infection, had no previous cases to which to compare its course.  
  The funeral took place almost immediately. Though none had dared inform Martius-Mercutius, the plans had been laid for some time for this eventuality. Borne aloft by his personal bodyguard, armoured in gold to imitate the Emperor’s own Custodians, the gilded sarcophagus of Martius-Mercutius II passed in mournful silence through the halls of the Holt Palace to the crypts below, where hundreds of scions of the Holt dynasty lay in similarly ornate caskets watched over by marble effigies of the bodies within.  
  As heir apparent, Jovinus followed immediately behind the guard, followed in turn by his own son Saturnius. After him came other family members not directly in the line of succession – Mercurius, Grand Duke of Holt Secundus, and Martius, Grand Duke of Holt Tertius – and finally nobles of the court. All of them were robed in mourning, even the guards setting aside their crimson cloaks.  
  Jovinus spoke a eulogy, full of grief and regret at the passing of his father, as the late Lord Holt was interred in the shadow cast by the imposing figure of his youthful self in days of greater glory. He didn’t mean a word of it.  
 He had never forgiven his father for living as long as he had, lamenting the increasingly potent juvenat treatments that became available as the Great Crusade’s advance had unified the technologies of mankind. Worse, though, was his father’s utter cowardice. When he had fallen ill, he had ordered the fleet to hold at anchor above Holt Prime for five years. Five years in which the dynasty’s income had been allowed to dwindle to the meagre revenue of the worlds of the Holt system. Five years in which the Holt Charter had gone unused, no glory or valour won.  
  It was one thing to be confined to one’s bed as an infection – or a series of infections, so unprecedented in nature nobody was able to tell for sure – ravaged one’s body, but to deny one’s son and heir the chance to make his own name amidst the stars while the fleet lay idle? It was inexcusable. Even the news of the Warmaster’s betrayal, two years ago already, had not moved his father to action. He thought of nothing beyond his own life, refusing, point blank, to die.  
  Though he appeared outwardly sombre, Jovinus flowed over with joy. At last, he would take his rightful place as Lord Holt and stamp his name on the stars. With civil war sweeping the galaxy, his destiny must lie at the very right hand of the Emperor.

The Chamber of Ascension was filled with enthusiastic applause and cried of ‘ _long live Lord Holt_ ’ as the fourfold crown was lowered onto Jovinus’ bowed head. The boom of cannon firing their salute into the sky came next, beams of discharging lasers lighting th chamber as they flashed past the window.  
  When he sat up straight, he was no longer merely Jovinus Holt, but the Lord Holt Jovinus IV. He smiled, though not so plainly as to mar his carefully composed expression of regal superiority, raising the eagle-mounted sceptre in his right hand to bring quiet. In the other hand he held another sceptre, mounted with a cross. He presumed the eagle-sceptre represented his rule in the Emperor’s name, and the cross-sceptre his direct inheritance as Lord Holt, but he realised that he had never witnessed his grandfather’s coronation. Had there been two sceptres even then? Jovinus wondered at just how swiftly such traditional rites faded into obscurity of purpose.  
  After being borne into the throne, Jovinus had to suffer through hours of every member of the court swearing their fealty to him. Under stifling layers of robes and jewels, it was almost enough to make him dismiss the rest of the ceremony and institute a simpler initiation rite. In the end, it was the spectacle of it all that stayed his hand, though he was glad enough to discard the heavy robes on the floor of his father’s – _his_ – study as soon as the exiting procession was over.  
  Jovinus collapsed into the soft embrace of the throne, the thick padding over the golden frame the same vibrant shade of violet as the sky outside the windows. He sighed in relief and smiled to himself. _Lord Holt_. He was finally in a position to achieve the greatness for which he was destined, though he would have been in the position long ago if his father had had the decency to die in a timely manner.  
  He was interrupted by a figure in the red robes of the chancellor entering with a polite cough.  
  “The review of the accounts can wait for a few hours, Hamanus.”  
  Jovinus pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched shut. He had forgotten there were matters of tedious bureaucracy to go along with elaborate ceremony.  
  “Of course, my lord, but this is not-”  
  “Emperor’s name, is there some other symbolic waste of time?” complained Jovinus, noticing that Jafa Hamanus had brought forth a roll of parchments marked with the seal of Martius-Mercutius II, catching the glint of something metallic deeper in the chancellor’s robes. “Other people should be doing symbolic things to celebrate me, not making me do them.”  
  “I assure you, it is not at all symbolic, my lord,” said Hamanus, handing him the roll. “It is in fact a quite practical matter of some urgency.”  
  The only reason to use such an ancient medium for practical purposes was to ensure secrecy – it left no trace in its passage, and could be destroyed both easily and completely if the need arose. Jovinus wondered what could possibly demand such measures as he split the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.  
  It was not one, but a series of communiques, doubtless sealed away in some dark vault every time another was added. Jovinus could not believe what he was reading. One hand strayed to the concealed biometric scanner worked into the throne’s arm.  
  “Does Galbar know?”  
  “Not yet, my lord,” Hamanus smiled – Jovinus wondered whether the smile really looked evil, or whether he was simply projecting. “Arrangements for his successor have been made if the need arises.”  
  “Go and tell him he is relieved of command.”  
  Hamanus’ smile broadened. “At once, my lord.”  
  The chancellor swept out of the room in a flutter of gold-chased robes. When the doors had swung closed, Jovinus reached over to his desk, keying the channel for the Imperial Court of Arbitration into the holo-communicator. After a short delay, the image of an old man, strong in spite of his advanced years and with a military bearing, thrummed into life half a foot above the marble counter.  
  ++Hail, Lord Holt.++  
  The man’s clipped voice came from speakers skilfully arranged to imitate the sound projecting from his mouth. Martius-Mercurius II had always found it distracting when the voice of a hololith was thrown.  
 The man saluted with a hand raised to the jagged scar running down his temple. The traditional salute used in the Holt system had long since superseded his use of the official Imperial sign of the aquila.  
  “Lord Marshall Galbar,” Jovinus answered with a casual salute that would have seen any of his men court-marshalled. “Chancellor Hamanus is coming to inform you that you are to be relieved of command.”  
  Galbar frowned. ++May I ask why, my lord?++  
  “Because, Sulpicius, I am fairly sure he had a concealed weapon under his robes and I was really very keen to get him out of the room before ordering his arrest.”  
  ++Understood, my lord. We shall arrange a suitable greeting party.++  
  Jovinus smiled and terminated the communication. He let out a sigh of relief and finally released his grip on the Belasco duelling pistol secreted in a compartment of the throne’s arm.

The hololith flickered into life, taking on the form of a mask. Another masked man kneeled before it in the darkness.  
  “Locusta, transmitting,” he spoke in a language known to only a handful of individuals across the galaxy.  
  ++Venenum, receiving,++ the hololithic mask replied. ++Confirm kill.++  
  “Confirmed.”  
  The mask disappeared, plunging Locusta back into darkness.

Jovinus ran his hand over the swirling patterns of gold worked along the edges of the auric plates of his grandfather’s armour. It was an ancient suit of reinforced carapace armour, said to have been thrice-blessed by a saint. Of course, that was in the days before the Emperor’s Imperial Truth.  
  It hung in an alcove of the Lord Holt’s chambers, accompanied by a weapons rack displaying a range of weapons both man-made and of xeno-origin. Most were simply trophies taken from defeated pirate lords, but a gold-chased plasma pistol and jewelled sword stood out as matching accompaniiments to the armour. Jovinus looked over the weapons contemplatively, his hand straying to the left shoulder of the armour.  
  He fancied the ate was warmer here, the legacy of the touch of the Emperor’s hand.  
  His reverie was interrupted by the chime of the comm.  
  ++Grand Duke Mercutius to see you, my lord.++  
  “Send him in,” ordered Jovinus.  
  Moments later the gilded doors swung open and his brother Mercutius entered.  
  “Lord Holt,” Mercutius exaggerated the enunciation, and the bow that accompanied the greeting.  
  “I could have you arrested for such insincerity,” jested Jovinus.  
  “You mean like you arrested Hamanus? Has power gone to your head so soon, brother?”  
  Jovinus face darkened with a scowl.  
  “I’m sure you had your reasons,” Mercutius continued, hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Just be careful. It isn’t decent to be dismantling father’s work so soon after you took his place.”  
  Jovinus snorted derisively. “Don’t pretend you liked the man.”  
  “I never had issues with him the way you did, Jove. I was content with my lot.”  
  “Well your lot is about to increase substantially. I’m naming you Regent of Holt, until Saturnius comes of age.”  
  “Leaving already? You never were satisfied sitting still.”  
  Jovinus shrugged. “It’s the Rogue Trader way. It’s in my blood.”  
  Mercutius raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. “Remarkable how that trait knows to pass only to the firstborn.”  
  “You needn’t be so literal, Mercutius,” retorted Jovinus, visibly irritated. “My destiny awaits. I have just a few of father’s affairs to close up, then I sail for Terra.”  
  “You intend to enter the war?”  
  “The war is coming to us, whatever we intend.”  
  “What do you mean?” asked Mercutius, confusion writ large across his face. “What have you done?”  
  “It is not what I have done, but what father has done,” replied Jovinus, satisfied that his brother truly had no idea of what their father had been doing. “Our father bargained for immortality with a man named Erebus. His disciples are coming – I don’t know how many, but they will be here soon. It’s time to choose a side.”

The entire Holt fleet was mobilised within minutes of the crimson vessel’s arrival. More akin to a floating cathedral than any ship Jovinus had ever set eyes on, the _Praeco Tenebris_ put every one of his ships to shame in armour and firepower nevertheless.  
  The Holt fleet had no true warships, only an eclectic ensemble of trade freighters, smuggling vessels and blockade runners. All were capable of holding their own against corsairs and xeno-raiders, but none had ever confronted a vessel of the Legiones Astartes. A few years ago, the prospect would have been unthinkable.  
  ++I am Captain Occassus. I bring greetings in the name of my master, Lord Erebus.++  
  The rasping voice echoed on the bridge of the _Golden Hornet_ , the pride of the dynastic fleet and personal flagship of its lord. For all its grating tone, the voice had an otherworldly sibilant quality about it.  
  All eyes turned to Jovinus Holt. He sat high above all others, enthroned in gold and encased in ancient armour of the same. It had not been worn since his grandfather Martius-Mercutius I had held audience with the Emperor - the fact was it had never seen combat, and was unlikely to now. It was, however, a potent symbol.  
  “In the name of the Holt dynasty, I bid you welcome,” answered Jovinus, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice.  
  He watched the proximity tick closer with every passing second, racing heart threatening to break open his cuirass. A handful of runes shifted through amber to green. He raised one hand in the air. To the crew on the bridge, it seemed that a halo played about his head, regal visage cast in the likeness of the Emperor himself. One man reached inside his jacket, clutching the scrap of parchment inside and whispering a hushed prayer. _The Emperor protects_.  
  “In the name of the Emperor, I bid you die,” Jovinus delivered his judgment with what haughtiness and authority he could muster and dropped his arm.  
  A spread of torpedoes was launched at the Word Bearers vessel, shooting across the void between the fleet and its prey at supersonic speed. Even so, it would take hours for them to find their mark hundreds of thousands of kilometres away.  
  ++You have made a very grave error.++  
  Suddenly, the display was filled with warning runes. Jovinus floundered, panicking as two of his ships’ status rune flickered and died. He counted the torpedoes spearing towards the _Praeco_ , and realised what had happened. Five of his ships had not fired. At least, not on Jovinus’ orders.  
  The Holt fleet fell into disarray, all pretence of formation abandoned as each vessel fought for its own survival heedless of Jovinus’ frantic orders across the vox. An orderly bulwark reduced to a crazed mass of explosions rippling across void shields, ships returning any fire directed at them without any real idea what was going on.  
  By the time the internal conflict died down, the _Praeco Tenebris_ was in range.

In the shadows of the reclusiam-bridge of the _Praeco Tenebris_ , Occassus smiled to himself. He read passages from the Book of Lorgar between orders, preaching his battle-sermon from behind the barbed construct of twisted black iron that served as his pulpit. Cogitators churned out data at an impressive rate, carving it in Colchisian cuneiform into masses of living, screaming flesh. The bodies turned around rotating pillars like meat on a spit, miraculously healed after they disappeared from sight so that the readout could begin anew.  
  It would appear gibberish to even the Colchisian crew of the ship. Only a transhuman mind could decrypt the octal cipher at the same rate at which the readout data were generated. Occassus did not suffer information to pass by any means but his direct order. To Occassus, and Occassus alone, the readout painted a grim picture of the enemy’s future. The Holt fleet had all but ripped itself apart, a mere handful of vessels remaining. The opening salvo of torpedoes had burst their void shields, it was true, but the resulting damage was minor. The shields would be operational again soon.  
  The entire ship bucked with the force of the nova cannon firing. Such an enormous gun had no business on a vessel so small, but Occassus had been quite insistent. It took several minutes to realign the jolted aim of every other gun on the ship.  
  One gauntleted hand strayed towards the maul leaning against the side of the pulpit. His eyes narrowed as he saw the nova shell had missed its mark – though it had claimed another kill as a consolation prize. The _Golden Hornet_ still went unmolested by the battle, and Occassus ached to board her and end the impudent upstart who captained it face to face.  
  He stroked the pommel, considering. He had only a handful of legionaries as his disposal. Enough to make a boarding action viable, of that he was certain. What he lacked was a competent commander he could trust to conduct the void battle in his stead.  
  “Focus the lances on the lesser vessels,” he ordered. “Supressing fire on the _Golden Hornet_. I want her alive when we’re finished with the others.”  
  Without pause for breath, he switched seamlessly back into his sermon.

Jovinus knew he was hopelessly outgunned. He had regained control of his fleet, a fleet that was even now dwindling in size. The Legion vessel seemed all but impervious to harm, losing a handful of gun batteries and suffering minor damage whilst it mercilessly picked off his ships at will.  
  His eyes flicked to the proximity readout, wondering if he had left it too late to make a final, desperate gamble for his life.  
  “Their nova cannon is almost ready to fire, my lord,” said the gunnery captain – Jovinus could not recall her name. “What are your orders?”  
  Jovinus sat in stunned silence. He blinked in disbelief as the last ship in his fleet died. They were alone.  
  “We will be obliterated!” the officer was shouting now.  
  “Fire the ultimate sanction,” ordered Jovinus.  
  The gunnery captain stared blankly at him.  
  “ _Now_.”  
  The prow of the _Golden Hornet_ split open like the pedipalps of an arachnid revealing its maw. The concealed firing tube within and the nova cannon of the _Praeco_ were brought into position by two crews desperate to fire first.  
  A single missile, hidden in the belly of the _Golden Hornet_ for over a century, finally launched. It powered across the void, shattered the hurriedly erected excuse for a void shield. It punched into the eye of a daemonic face roaring at the centre of an eight-pointed star defacing the Praeco Tenebris’ once noble prow. The cyclonic warhead, designed to tear continents apart, detonated in the cancerous heart of the ship.  
  The _Golden Hornet_ rolled as the blastwave of a violent plasma storm unleashed by detonating engines washed over it. Her hull blistered and deformed, but held fast.  
  “Is it over?”  
  The gunnery captain looked at the field of debris shown on the display, then back to Jovinus, unsure whether she was seriously expected to answer that question.  
  “Good, good,” muttered Jovinus, half to himself. In the back of his mind he reflected that the Battle of Holt would make a spectacular opening to the second volume of _Jovinus Holt: Rogue Trader_.

The _Golden Hornet_ alone survived the encounter in an operational state. Every other ship had been either destroyed utterly, or would require years of repair in a dry dock. It mattered little to Jovinus – the Holt fortune could afford to replace the losses easily enough, and he had never had any sentimental attachment to his ships. It was what a ship represented that mattered: freedom to come and go as he pleased.  
  He only needed one ship for that. Mercutius was quite capable of overseeing the mundane matter of rebuilding.

“I have good news, Villefort,” Jovinus announced as he strode into the laboratorium, beaming widely at the magos’ expectant look. “I don’t have to kill you.”  
  The expectation was replaced by a mixture of shock and panic.  
  “Wh- what do you mean?” he stuttered incredulously, the faltering delivery comically misaligned with the mechanical sound, hastily adding “M- my lord.”  
  “Don’t look so worried,” Jovinus chided. “I said I _don’t_ have to kill you. If anyone were to inquire into my father’s sad – no, tragic – passing, I now have evidence to justify any – unfounded – suggestions of foul play. In fact, I might be able to convince people he was assassinated by the Officio.”  
  Villefort blinked, somewhat taken aback, whilst Jovinus mulled over the dramatic possibilities.  
  “Probably best if it is kept quiet nevertheless, my lord,” suggested Villefort.  
  Jovinus closed his eyes, shaking his head as he opened them. His mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before he replied.  
  “Are you an imbecile, Villefort?”  
  “My lord?”  
  Jovinus threw his arms in the air. “It’s like you’re encouraging me to kill you,” he waved his hands to silence Villefort’s objections. “Anyway, I’m going to Terra and I need you to keep an eye on Mercurius.”  
  “Keep an eye?”  
  “Do I need to spell it out for you? Fine. I want you to observe what he does and, if you suspect anything untoward – being on the wrong side of a galactic civil war, an attempt to usurp my position or harm Saturnius, that sort of thing – I want you to… make sure he has a place of honour in the family crypt. Is that sufficiently clear?”  
  “Absolutely, my lord. But do you not think-”  
  “That I am needed here? It had crossed my mind. The only thing is, there won’t really be much going on here besides repairs. Mercurius can take care of that, and call in some temporary assistance in case Erebus sends anyone to check up on his minion. In the meantime, I’d be a fool to waste the one operational ship I still have sitting on the sidelines of a war to shape the future of mankind.”  
  “Very good, my lord.”  
  “I would appoint you chancellor,” Jovinus called over his shoulder as he turned on his heel and swept out of the chamber. “But I think that might be a tad conspicuous.”

They met in the hidden chamber of the Imperial Palace, as was their custom. One was male, the other female, both concealing their identities behind masks and swathes of dark cloth. Neither knew the name of the other, though each had their suspicions.  
  “Siress Venenum,” one began.  
  “Master,” Venenum returned the greeting. “I request an extension on Locusta’s remit.”  
  “The Holt case? The kill has been confirmed,” the Master of Assassins did not seem surprised - he never did.  
  “Lord Holt, the new Lord Holt, has decided to set sail for Terra,” Venenum explained. “He wishes to aid the Imperium in some way, reclaim his family’s honour. It would be wise to maintain a failsafe if the appointed regent takes after the late Lord Holt.”  
  The Master of Assassins nodded. “Very well. Relay permission to Locusta. I will apprise the Senatorum Imperialis of this development, that they may account for the arrival of Lord Holt in their devises.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a narrative rendition of a player's character bio from a Horus Heresy RPG I GMed. Jovinus Holt and the Golden Hornet are Panic's brain-children.
> 
> Timeline:  
> c.008.M31: Battle of Holt


End file.
